The Accident to End All Accidents
by Lisa Von Cooper
Summary: "Do you want to find out how much damage you've done to yourself? Do you want to know exactly what despicable creature your parents see when they look at you? Do you want to have yet another glaring reason to wish you could go back in time and prevent all this?" AU in which the Accident is much more horrific. There's no Danny Phantom - just Danny Fenton, weak and wounded.
1. Chapter 1: Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note: A big inspiration for this oneshot was "feel the outside turning in" by anthrop, which I highly recommend. Unlike that fanfic, however, there's no Danny Phantom in this story. There's no superhero to make it all better. Just angst. Lots of angst. I hope that's your thing! Please read and review!**

 **I also want to take this opportunity to offer a warning: as part of my initial research, I searched Google Images for "exit wounds." DO NOT search Google Images for "exit wounds." What I saw cannot be unseen.**

 **The Accident to End All Accidents**

 **Chapter One: Ashes to Ashes**

It's hard to tell whether you're dead or alive.

Darkness surrounds you. You're clearly aware that it's dark. You're also aware of the fact that you're lying down on something. You're still thinking and asking yourself questions. You wouldn't do that if you no longer existed, would you?

But then, how would you know? You've never died before. In fact, how do you know you're dying now?

As you ponder this, no information reaches your senses. No light hits your eyes. No soundwaves crash into your ear. No fibres scratch your skin. You feel nothing at all.

Not for long, though.

Your body is rocked by a string of explosions. They start in your head and race down your spine to your feet. Then the chain goes in the opposite direction. It happens again and again, faster and faster, until every inch of your skin is corroding at once.

You have no choice but to scream.

At least, you _think_ you're screaming. You can't hear anything. You feel your lips moving – that's good, you still have lips – but no noise comes out.

"Help!" you try to shout. "Somebody! Anybody!" You force the air through your mouth with all your might, a wind strong enough to uproot trees: "SOMEBODY TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON!"

Still not a sound.

The world shakes. You're coughing silently. There's … _stuff_ coming out. What sort of stuff? Phlegm? Vomit? Blood? Your own severed tongue?

Invisible hands push you down. Who is it? An angel? A demon? In this gloom, you'll need something other than sight to work out which. You try to touch him or her or it. Your arm brushes against stiff fabric and whacks a head of hair. There are no feathered wings, but no horns either.

The mystery person forces you onto your side. A needle pricks your neck.

That small action has the power to sever all connections to your body. No more bombs go off beneath you. You're no longer attached to your deceptive mouth or to your heaving chest. You're floating away from all these confused feelings, and you don't know whether to be relieved or terrified, because maybe now you'll be free of the pain, but maybe now you really are dying…

You drift into something halfway between a dream and a memory.

…

" _Smile!"_

 _A white flare assaults your vision. Sam's camera whirs as a picture of you – eyes half-open, standing under three dials, clutching a black-and-white jumpsuit to your chest – slides out the bottom._

 _You blink a few times (while Tucker sniggers at your wimpy inability to have your picture taken) and lower the unusual garment. "Okay," you sigh, "I showed you the portal. Can we get out of here now? My parents could be back here any minute." You scan the sterile, grey, windowless basement in case they're sneaking in as you speak. You turn back to the octagonal hole in the wall, the device the three dials were hooked up to. "Besides, they say it doesn't work, anyway."_

" _Come on, Danny, a Ghost Zone?" Sam scurries past you to admire the mouth of the cave. "Aren't you curious?" The flashing lights on the surrounding ghost sensors make her violet eyes twinkle. "You gotta check it out!"_

 _A few weeks ago, your parents brought you and Jazz, your big sister, in front of the Fenton Ghost Portal, promising adventure and scientific exploration the likes of which had never been achieved before. The Fenton family would come face-to-face with those odd manifestations of ectoplasmic energy and post-human consciousness. Dad plugged it in, an ivory lightning bolt fizzled in the air … and not much else happened. Jazz rolled her eyes and left to check up on dinner. Your parents trudged upstairs, ate little and went to bed early. They were so sure they had the right calculations this time._

 _But what if you succeeded where they failed? What if you found the thing that stopped the portal working? What if you opened the door to a world unseen?_

" _You know what? You're right," you say to Sam. You allow yourself a childish smile. "Who knows what kind of awesome, super-cool things exist on the other side of that portal?"_

 _You slide into the jumpsuit's black boots, snap the black gloves onto your arms and zip the whole thing up to your neck. It's a little tight around your ribs._

" _Are you actually going to wear that?" Tucker asks._

" _Says the kid who's had the same red beanie since the third grade," you retort. "Look, if you're going to represent the entire human race as you make contact with another life form, you have to get them to think you mean business." You put your hands on your hips and lift your chin to demonstrate._

" _Hang on." Sam grabs an oddly-shaped sticker and peels it off. "You can't go walking around with_ that _on your chest." It's a picture of your dad's grinning face._

 _You don't respond. You break your fighting stance. Your bubble of energy bursts. You've just been reminded, once again, that Mom and Dad would kill you if they found out that you and your friends have been in their laboratory – unsupervised!_

 _Tucker shares your facial expression: slightly raised eyebrows, knitting together in concern. "Maybe we shouldn't be doing this," he says, voicing your fears. "Wanna go back upstairs and play_ Doomed _?"_

 _That sounds nice. Video games are safe. You've enjoyed them for years. By contrast, never in your entire life have you introduced yourself to a parallel dimension full of spooks. Despite your parents' zeal to make it happen, you've never met a ghost in the flesh – or, rather, in the ectoplasm. You don't have a script prepared. What will you say to the spectres, beyond the "We come in peace" cliché? Will they even let you get a word in edgeways, or will the filthy creatures just rip you apart molecule by molecule? You know they could do it. Your bedtime stories were full of such horrors._

 _Sam takes advantage of your paralysis to state her case. "We can play_ Doomed _whenever we want. This is our once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get into the Ghost Zone. It'll be like the wardrobe to Narnia, only more Gothic and a million times cooler! But," she adds, turning back to Danny, "if you're too chicken to do it, I will. Sure, my parents_ aren't _ghost-hunting experts who've passed their superior knowledge down to me and made me the most fitting person to go through the portal first, but-"_

" _I think I can handle it," you say instantly, sick of her shaming you. "I'm still not going to try turning it_ all _the way on. We probably can't, if it's broken. But I want to at least see what the problem is. If it's a loose connection that Dad hadn't spotted, I might find it and fix it. And then my parents will be so glad to see their greatest invention working that they'll forget to be mad at us. Maybe."_

 _You take a deep breath, pushing against taut material to do so. You move under the archway. You cross the threshold between worlds._

" _Go get 'em, buddy," says Tucker._

 _The jumpsuit, once white, is now illuminated by eerie cyan bulbs, like the fabled Ghostlight in one of your dad's favourite legends. You raise your leg over bulky criss-crossing cables; the movement is comically exaggerated, but that's better than dislodging your parents' months – nay, years – of hard work._

 _Once you're clear of the trip hazards, your left hand brushes against the wall, rising and falling as it traces the thin wires and shiny panels. Nothing out of the ordinary so far. You glance back at the lab, which now seems so far away, at the end of a long tunnel. Sam has her camera poised, ready for another killer snap. A smile is creeping onto Tucker's face as he waits to see what you'll do (and admires you in that jumpsuit). They're expecting something big. They don't want to see you bow out. There's no turning back now._

 _While you're looking away, your hand sinks into something._

BEEP!

 _You whip your head around. What have you just done? You hand is next to a red OFF button. You move it away from the wall, revealing an identical ON button (identical except for being green) under your palm._

This is bad, _instinct tells you._ Run. Get out. You don't know what you're doing.

 _But you don't run – because something flickers in the centre of the cavern. It reminds you of a galaxy, a spiral galaxy. You like galaxies, don't you? You know everything about them. You've always wanted to be an astronaut._

Come here, _the will-o'-the-wisp calls to you._ Follow me. I can show you a whole new world.

 _And then, in a flash, everything changes._

 _A river of glowing green fire engulfs the chamber and washes over you. No, not just over you._ Through _you. In the eyes of the whirlpool, you're nothing._

 _Your feet are glued to the ground. Your cries are swallowed by the flames. No healthy air reaches your lungs – only the slime that's gushing out in front of you and trying to kill everything in its path._

 _With each zap from each snow-white bolt of ecto-energy, the agony increases. You throw your arms in front of your face in a vain attempt to stem the flow. Your molten fingers blacken and curl in pain. Your skin crackles. Your hair is smoking. You're turning to ash._

 _There's a_ WHOOSH _behind you. You're suddenly shot out like a bullet from a gun._

 _You hit the floor._

 _The world disappears._

…

A soft cerulean haze is rising. Falling. Rising again. You blink a few times. Rise and fall. Rise and fall.

The cloud thins out. Before you is a white rectangle – a door? Yes, a door. The haze wasn't a haze at all, but the painted walls of your bedroom.

Two figures guard you on either side. Your eyes dart between them. The one on the left is short and slender and wears a bright blue jumpsuit; the one on the right is tall and rotund and wears an even brighter orange jumpsuit. The one on the left is talking, and the one on the right is listening.

"We should probably haul a couple of monitors up here to keep an eye on his breathing and his heartrate. We've got to be on the lookout for irregularities. And if he still hasn't woken up by the time they're fitted, we may have to start feeding him through a tube."

Who are they talking about?

"Mom?" you croak. "Dad?" You blink at the sound of – no, that's not your voice. It belongs to a swamp monster, not a fourteen-year-old boy.

The conversation halts. Both figures turn in your direction and look down. You realise why they're looking down: you're lying in bed and they're standing up.

"What happened?" you growl. "How did I get here?" You press your lips together. Now you sound even worse. It's as if your throat is lined with barbed wire, and the words are being pushed through the tunnel against their will. They stagger out of your mouth covered in bleeding gashes and seeking vengeance for their rough treatment by attacking the listener's ears.

"Danny," Mom starts. "You're awake." Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. There's a film of anxiety glazing over those purple orbs. "How are you feeling?"

You stay quiet for a moment. You picture a red line passing over your body, recording size and shape and position, like a retina scanner in a spy movie. No alarm sounds in your brain. You're completely numb, in fact, as if you're floating in a special treacle that blocks your senses. "Weird," you finally say. You don't explain yourself. You don't want to use your nasty little vocal chords for any longer than necessary.

"Does anywhere hurt?" asks Dad.

"I don't think so."

Mom sits beside you on the shiny black chair that used to go under your desk. "Are you sure you're all right? How good is your memory?" she asks.

"Um – I remember going down to the lab … with Sam and Tucker…" You trail off. Your parents' expressions are unreadable. "And I know you told us not to," you rush on, "and I'm sorry, it was stupid-"

"We're not interested in that right now," Dad interrupts. "Just tell us the truth about what happened."

You avoid his frown and stare at the ceiling. "I put the jumpsuit on and took a look inside the portal. I wanted to make it work, to make you happy. I turned it on – by accident – and then it sort of exploded. It hurt. A lot." That is an understatement. "And then I got thrown backwards and it was really dark and quiet. I cried for help, but I couldn't hear myself. Then I felt someone pushing me down. After that … nothing."

Mom nods. "That someone pushing you down was me with the anaesthetic. You were making a lot of noise and thrashing about. It wasn't helping us put you back together."

"Oh." You probably don't want her to elaborate on what she means by 'putting you back together.' "I'm sorry," you say.

"No need to apologise," says Mom. "You didn't know. You'd obviously been badly blinded and deafened."

"I guess so. Not anymore, though. I can see you. And hear you, obviously." You smile. "Maybe knocking me out helped."

"Hmm. If only it helped with the other things," says Dad.

"Jack!"

Your smile fades. "What other things?"

"Well … how do I say this?" Mom sighs. "Your hands were, uh, the worst affected by the explosion. They took the full force of the blast when you shielded your face. You saved your head by doing that, actually. You're very lucky that the blood flow to your brain wasn't cut off. Sadly, we couldn't save your hands."

"But they feel okay. I can wiggle my fingers." Can't she see them quivering under the sheets?

She shakes her head. "No, dear. Those are probably just phantom limbs."

"Not to be confused with limbs belonging to phantoms," Dad pipes up.

You have to prove them wrong. You bend your arms, raising your hands to your face, letting the quilt slide off – and oh, how you wish you hadn't.

You have no hands. Not really. Just sickly yellow stumps. Some fingers have been incinerated, leaving blackened bulges, like an inky bubble bath. Others have melted into unsightly lumps on your palms. You recognise the shape of the thumb on your left hand and the pinkie on your right hand. But that's about it.

"They're gone," you choke. "My hands." The room blurs. You blink back your tears before they spill.

"We're so sorry."

Why is Dad apologising? It's not his fault you've lost two of your most important limbs.

Lumpy red spots gather around your wrists and spread up your arms, where the skin is unnaturally pink and peeling away. "What are these things?" You poke one of the protrusions with your surviving little finger. It sinks down and springs back up, pulsating. You yelp as a fresh spasm jolts along your arm and through your shoulder.

"You've got ecto-acne," says Mom. "It's all over you: on your face, on your back, even on the soles of your feet. That's probably the major source of your pain."

You touch your cheek. It's coarse and chapped, but not spotty. Is it? "Where's the mirror?" You spy the pane of glass to your right, balancing on the white chest of drawers. You try to throw the covers off.

"I wouldn't walk anywhere if I were you," Dad warns.

You sit up quickly. Too quickly. Now your back aches. And your front. And your sides. Your innards are trying to freeze you and boil you at the same time, with inevitably painful results. You wrap your arms across your belly, holding yourself together.

"Danny?"

"I'm okay," you lie to Mom. You'd squeezed your eyes shut, but now you peel them open. You ball up the quilt and reveal your feet.

You retch. They're hideous. All your toes have fused together into two burgundy tips, the colour of cold blood, and their texture resembles a bad case of goose bumps. Further up, on your ankles, the skin is bright and sore, practically scarlet, and broken up by darker cracks, like a harsh desert landscape. More shiny spots litter your legs.

"That's where we think the exit wounds are," Dad explains, covering the abominations again. "That's how the ecto-energy left your body."

"Where did it come in?" you ask, lying back down, cringing as a few bulbous blemishes are squished beneath you.

"Partly through your hands and partly through your face," Mom replies.

"Wanna see what your face looks like?" asks Dad.

Do you want to find out how much damage you've done to yourself? Do you want to know exactly what despicable creature your parents see when they look at you? Do you want to have yet another glaring reason to wish you could go back in time and prevent all this? "Not really." You changed your mind when you saw the state of your feet and wanted to puke.

Dad ignores your answer, retrieves the wide mirror and holds it over the bed.

A beast stares down on you.

"Gah!" You shrink away and hide behind what used to be your hands. You peek through the tiniest of gaps. The creature is copying you. "Is that … me?"

No. It can't be.

The beast's eyes are completely black: the pupils, the formerly baby-blue irises, and even the so-called whites are pitch black. Its lips are shrivelled and have turned an otherworldly grey. The right cheek is rough and seems to be smeared with soot, a black hole collapsing in on itself. Straight crimson lines have been drawn haphazardly across the whole visage, an attempt to scribble the thing out. The scratches stretch down the beast's neck and onto its chest. Outbreaks of ecto-acne fill the gaps. The tiny percentage of skin that hasn't been marked is paper-white. Much of the beast's floppy black hair has burned to a crisp, leaving sore, flaky bald patches. Stringy blue veins are visible through its forehead. It seems as though a ferocious monster has ripped its prey's face off, instantly repented, and tried (and failed) to sew it back on with its clumsy claws.

"Take it away," you order your dad. He returns the mirror to its proper place.

If only you'd never woken up. If only you could have stayed ignorant of your disfigurement. If only you hadn't gone down to the lab in the first place.

If only, if only, if only.

"That's not – I don't – I can't be – I'm a-" You've lost the ability to speak. "Oh, please be a nightmare – please be a nightmare-" Your breath is short.

"Calm down, Danny!" Mom grips the side of the bed and talks in a rush. "The surface area of your lungs will have shrunk from all the ectoplasmic particles you inhaled. If you keep up that hyperventilation, you won't be able to breathe at all!"

"Shut up!" you snap. She's not helping you in the slightest. All you're hearing is advanced science stuff about precisely what's wrong with you. Where's the emotion in their voices? Where's the care? Shouldn't they be holding you close and telling you it'll be okay? You don't want Jack and Maddie Fenton. You want Mom and Dad.

Funny colours dance in front of your eyes. Your bed tilts from side to side. Your tongue feels thicker. You're going under again.

At that moment, a redhead in black and blue peers around the doorframe.

"Danny!" She rushes into your bedroom. "You're awake!" She launches herself at you and pulls you into her chest. "I was so worried about you! I thought you'd never…" She squeezes you instead of finishing her sentence.

"Ah," you gasp. She's pressing a particularly tender spot on your shoulder blade.

"Careful, Jazz," Dad warns. "His back hit the ground pretty hard."

Your big sister dutifully lies you down. The funny colours have gone, and the world is steady again. Her arrival was a much-needed distraction.

Jazz shudders a little as she releases you. "You're so cold!" she comments, tucking you in tightly. "Did the ecto-energy freeze you?"

"It felt more like a bonfire," you say.

If Jazz thinks the sound of your voice could be replicated by someone using a cheese grater on her eardrums, she doesn't show it. But she does sit on the bed and lean over you, resting her hand on your heart, letting her long ginger hair fall onto your chest and tickle your neck. "I don't know how you survived," she tells you with watery eyes, "but I'm so glad you did."

When Jazz hugged you, it had been the first time anyone had touched you since you woke up.


	2. Chapter 2: Dependence

**Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews!**

 **Juniper Frost: I don't think it's weird for you to want more – I encourage it! Otherwise, I'm just a weird girl talking to herself. Oh, and I don't think I've ever been complimented on my "feels" before, so thank you for that!**

 **imperius01: Aw, thank you! I hope I can keep it up!**

 **TheBlade17: I'm glad you like the story! I'm not familiar with Batman, but I think I once saw a parody of that Joker scene in "The Simpsons" when Lisa had those ugly braces fitted. It was a long time ago now. They hardly ever show the good old reruns these days.**

 **Invader Johnny: I feel that, too. From what I've seen of Jack and Maddie on the show, I think they would be tempted to revert to "science mode" when something goes wrong, because being in "parent mode" is too emotionally draining. Thanks for keeping an eye on the characters in this way. If anyone seems out of character, let me know and I'll sort it out.**

 **Guest: Thank you! I was worried that the descriptions might be too detailed or not detailed enough, so I appreciate the reassurance!**

 **On with the next chapter! Please keep reading and reviewing!**

 **Chapter Two: Dependence**

Evening draws in. The window to your left welcomes the gentle orange beams, which illuminate the NASA posters on your left wall. It's a shame you can't enjoy the effect. You're viewing the world through squinting eyes.

Whatever your parents injected into your bloodstream wore off ages ago. Your nerves are on high alert. You're aware of every tremor in every part of your body. The skin around your chest seems to have shrunk in the wash; you're scared to breathe too deeply in case it bursts open and your guts spill out. Even turning your head to the side is a chore.

When Dad arrives with a bubbly pink drink in his hands, he carries the warm meaty aroma that wafts upwards from the kitchen. You lick your chapped lips. You could use a distraction right now.

"What's for dinner?" you ask him, once again startled by your own voice's animalistic timbre.

"A glass of ecto-purifier and a mouthful of pills. Lucky you," he jokes.

That was not the answer you were expecting. "But – downstairs – the smell-"

"Oh, that's dinner for us, not for you. Your mother and I thought it would be better to keep you off the solids for a while. We don't want to overload the system when it's trying to fix itself."

"Oh. Okay." You try smiling back at him; your cheeks hurt. Well, it could be worse. They could have thrown you out onto the street and refused to feed you at all.

Dad puts the glass down, produces about seven boxes from his spacious jumpsuit pockets and arranges them on the chest of drawers. Tiny capsules in every colour of the rainbow fall into his hand.

"Wait!" Jazz pops up between you and Dad. When did she sneak in? "Before he puts these weird anti-ghost things in his system, I want to know _exactly_ what they are and what they do!"

Dad rattles off the names as he points to each pill. "The stuff in the glass is ecto-purifier to treat the ecto-acne. These two pills are made from blood blossoms, a natural ghost repellent and human painkiller. This is Hotynuff for the ectoplasm burns. This is Yurynate, a laxative to make him pee all the ghost chemicals out of his system. This is Feelyn to sort out the nerve damage. This is Myndfol, a parapsychology blocker to prevent the growth of any ghost tumours in his brain. This is Blowitol to treat his lungs. And this is just plain old Vitamin D to make up for not going out in the Sun. But it's Vitamin D with the name 'Fenton' on it!"

His speech finished, he scoops the pills into the fluid and watches them dissolve.

"Do you catch what any of that stuff was?" you ask Jazz, making your speech as quiet as it can go while still being heard.

"I got the Vitamin D," she whispers back, "but the rest of it? You'll just have to trust him."

She lifts you by the armpits into a sitting position, manoeuvring your pillow to support your back. When she moves away, you're resting on your stubby arms. You grunt. There's too much weight on them. You just want to get this over and done with.

Sensing your discomfort, Jazz holds the glass with one hand and cradles your balding head with the other. She presses the drink to your lips. You take a sip. A rank tang fizzes on your tongue. You moan and push the glass back with your head.

"What's wrong?" Jazz asks.

"It tastes like sewage," you spit.

"How would you know? Have you ever tried drinking sewage?" Dad points out. When you refuse to answer that question, he changes his tactics. "Listen, I'm not going to pretend this is the most delicious thing you'll ever have, but you have to drink it. It's supposed to help you get better. You want to get better, don't you?"

You clench your phantom fists and open your mouth. The cure may be rancid, but it's a million times better than the disease.

The thin sour liquid pours down your throat once more. The muscles in your neck tighten. You want to gag, to squirt it back into your dad's face, but you suppress those instincts. You gulp it down and don't stop until there's almost nothing in the glass.

"See?" says Dad, taking the receptacle from Jazz. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Your big sister lies you back down before picking up the lemon yellow Yurynate box and examining the label. "Isn't this thing a laxative?"

"That's right." Dad sounds prouder of this than he should be.

You cotton on as well. "What am I supposed to do if I have to go to the bathroom?"

"Just go," is your father's instant answer.

"But I can't walk down the hall by myself," you snort. "I can't even sit up without my body trying to kill me."

"No, I mean just _go_. There's a bedpan ready and waiting beneath you." He pulls the cover back. Your bare butt is perched on an oval bowl made of grey plastic.

"Ugh."

"We've also removed your pyjama pants," he adds. An unnecessary comment, given that you can clearly see the lack of pants.

"Uh … thanks. I guess."

…

While your parents and sister are gathered around the kitchen table tucking into meatloaf or whatever, you've been lying here by yourself squeezing your thighs together. You will _not_ use the bedpan. You will _not_ use the bedpan. You will never stoop so low. You wish someone would pop in and carry you to the bathroom.

Plates clatter. It sounds like they've finished their meal. Are they finally going to check up on you?

Nope. The tap's running so Mom can do the dishes!

You groan. _Why?_ Why must they torture you so?

You can't take it anymore. You release it. You go to the bathroom in your own bed. It's as humiliating as it sounds.

Jazz comes in as soon as you finish. _Where was she a few seconds ago?!_

She sniffs the air. "I'm guessing you've used the bedpan?"

"I held out as long as I could," you grumble.

"Hey, there's no shame in it. It's better than wetting the bed and making Mom wash the sheets every five seconds."

"Humph."

She sighs; she can tell from your grimace that you're not convinced. "I'll just pour this stuff out and give the bedpan a wipe."

She does so. About ten minutes later, she returns, dragging two tubs of water behind her. One is overflowing with bubbles. The other is clear.

"Wow. What's the occasion?" you ask.

"It's time for your bed bath!" She pulls your sheets onto the floor with a flourish and a cheesy grin.

"Bed bath?" you echo, like a dumbfounded parrot.

"Yep!" Without asking, she turns you onto your side and places a towel behind you. "Just because you're bedridden and wounded doesn't mean you have a licence to stink up the place." Then, without asking, she turns you onto that towel to place another one. You're being treated like an inconvenient piece of furniture that keeps getting in the way but can't be thrown out because it's been in the family for generations.

"How come you're doing this and not Mom or Dad?" A third towel covers your legs (and your modesty). "Not that I don't appreciate it or anything, but where are they?"

"In the lab," says Jazz, with a note of scorn. "Apparently, the unusual readings from the Fenton Portal are more important than their own son." She's so annoyed her fumbling hands can barely unbutton your pink pyjama shirt. After inhaling deeply and calming down, she expertly slips it off.

This is the first time you've had a proper look at your chest. Chunks of deathly pale flesh have been stitched together with an almost luminous white thread. You look like a macabre patchwork quilt. You're a real-life example of Frankenstein's monster.

"We'll have to be careful here," says Jazz, tracing the path of your parents' craftsmanship with her finger. "It's probably not a good idea to get soap in the wounds."

"Do you actually know what you're doing?"

"Of course. I borrowed a book from the library. It was written by a doctor and everything."

You keep your mouth shut. You're running out of things to argue with your sister about and you don't like it.

Jazz misinterprets your silence as reluctance. "Come on, this could be fun. Remember when we shared a bath and made ourselves beards out of the bubbles?"

"Yes, but I was about six! It was cute then! This is completely different."

"Well, you can't stop it happening, so let's make it work."

The water splashes as she tests the temperature, and then it begins.

There's a pattern to this, as Jazz explains. She rubs a bar of soap on your skin. She gets a washcloth and scrubs at that space to dislodge any bacteria, before tossing it in one of the basins. A second washcloth from the less frothy basin rinses away the soap, and then she pats you dry with a towel and moves on to another part of the body.

That's the theory. In practice, modifications have to be made. She starts with your face, ears and neck. There's a limit to what she can do because your skin prickles when she tries applying the soap (and you yelp to alert her to this fact). In the end, she's reduced to dabbing a bit of water on you and patting it off immediately after. On her instruction, you keep your eyes shut at all times. The scraps of hair that remain on your head are treated with a dry shampoo that makes it look like you have a seriously bad case of pungent dandruff.

She switches to your left arm and shoulder, then your right arm and shoulder, then your chest, stomach and sides. "Are you warm enough?" she asks as she's drying your belly.

"Yeah." You're enjoying yourself now. There's something therapeutic about baths, even if they're just bed baths. Before, you were tainted by the ecto-energy from the portal. It clung to you and pushed you down. After, the murky film has peeled away. You feel a lot less sticky. You're cleaner, lighter and, strange as it may sound, more optimistic.

Jazz carries on, moving the modesty towel above your waist and soaking your legs. The feet, the horrid hematite feet, are the most difficult things to wash so far. For the longest time, she creeps towards them and then retreats, as if she's afraid there'll be a gory explosion if she puts the smallest amount of pressure on them. She eventually decides that the best way to not make you bleed to death is to drape the washcloth over the feet, leave it there for a few seconds, and then remove it.

"Can you turn over for me?"

You heave yourself onto your right-hand side. It's not as painful as you expected. The blood blossoms (or whatever Dad called the red painkillers) must be working. A chill runs down your spine as more water dribbles down your back. You frown when you notice the coolness spreading to your buttocks. "You're going a little low, aren't you?"

"I have to. And there's an even trickier part coming up."

Jazz snaps on a pair of latex gloves, retrieves a clean washcloth and lifts your left leg. Oh, no. She's about to wash you … down there.

"Do we _have_ to do this?"

"Yep. Every day. Even on the days when you're not having a full-body bed bath."

"Are you nuts? I'm not getting those bits wiped by my _sister_!"

"It'll be fine. Just pretend I'm Paulina." She attempts a Latina accent. "Hi! I'm Danny's girlfriend! I'm ever so pretty! Who wants a taco?"

"Now that's just racist."

"Yeah, I'm going to stop that."

You close your eyes and imagine yourself being somewhere far, far away from here.

Before long, it's over. She finishes off with a chalk-coloured lotion on your back and face – one of Mom's soothing anti-ecto-acne concoctions – before buttoning up your shirt. She grins when she puts the covers back over you.

"What?" you bark.

"Admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That you liked it."

You don't say anything.

"It was nice," she insists, "wasn't it?"

You don't meet her eyes. "I do feel cleaner. Thanks," you add gruffly.

Jazz kisses your vein-riddled forehead. "You're welcome."

Neither one of you can resist smiling at each other.

"Aww!"

Jazz whips her head around. Your parents are standing in the doorway. "You kids are so sweet!" Mom simpers.

"What were you doing to the portal?" your sister sneers.

"The portal? Oh, that. Nothing special. Just, uh…" Mom has a nearly-empty fuchsia bottle in her hand. "Danny, you'll need a little more ecto-purifier before you go to sleep."

You glance down at the spots on your arms. First the juice and pills, then the cream, and now more juice? Those guys _really_ don't like skin conditions. "I'm fine, honestly," you bleat. "Dad gave me some blood blossoms and the pain's almost gone. And Jazz has just put that cream on my skin."

"Yes," Mom concedes, "but those things are treating the symptoms, not the cause. The ecto-acne could still be weakening your muscles and we need the ecto-purifier to counteract that."

"We don't want what happened to Vlad to happen to you," says Dad.

"Who's Vlad?"

"Ignore your father." Mom shoves the ecto-purifier in your face. "Just finish this off, sweetie, and you'll be fine."

She drives the neck of the bottle between your teeth. You nearly inhale the stuff in her haste. "Who's Vlad?" you try again between hacking coughs.

Mom pinches the bridge of her nose. "Jack! Now look what you've done!"

"Hey, I wasn't the one who sprung the ecto-purifier on him!"

"I meant you've got him worked up about Vlad!"

"Why can't we tell him about Vlad?"

"Because I told you I didn't want to scare him."

"It won't scare him. Kids see a lot on TV these days. And don't you think he ought to know?"

Before Mom can continue her protest, Dad sits on the chair beside you, whips a picture out of his pocket (is there anything he _doesn't_ carry in those pockets?) and holds it up for you to scrutinise. It displays a young Dad looking exactly the same as he does now, with exactly the same jumpsuit, the only difference being the longer hair that isn't turning white. He has his arm around a much skinnier man with spiky dark grey hair, wearing a gold and green t-shirt and brown trousers.

"Vlad Masters was my best friend in college," Dad reminisces. "And my roommate. And my lab partner. We did everything together. He let me blabber on about ghosts, and I bought him piles of Green Bay Packers merchandise." Hence the colours of Vlad's t-shirt. "One of our biggest projects was a prototype of the ghost portal. It was only a small thing, about to size of a guy's head, but it was a giant leap for us."

"That was how we met, wasn't it?" Mom chips in. "You two built the portal, and then you roped me in to fill out all the paperwork you hated doing."

"Yep, we made a great team." Dad's beaming, but not for long. "Why did I turn that thing on? Your mother was trying to tell me something – she thought the calculations weren't right. But I wasn't listening. I slammed the lever down on the remote…" His voice seems thicker now. "Vlad was still checking it over … and the blast … his face…"

He stands, turns away and moves into a corner of the room.

It's Mom who breaks the silence, taking up the story where her husband left off. "Vlad's face was covered in pimples. I knew what was wrong with him as soon as I saw them. But we were young then, and we didn't understand as much as we do now about treating ecto-acne. We couldn't sort him out by ourselves, so we rushed him to hospital instead." She pauses. "Sadly, they knew even less about the disease. Most of the doctors didn't think ghosts existed in the first place."

"Was Vlad okay?" you ask.

Mom makes a noise that is half-chuckle and half-sob. "He was as far from okay as you can get. Those spots completely drained him. He couldn't move a muscle – not even his heart." She lingers near the end of the story, watching her husband. "He passed away in the middle of the night."

Dad sniffs and leaves the room.

"Vlad … died?" Jazz whispers.

You put your stumps together; if you still had all your body parts, you would be lying there with hands clasped and palms sweating. "A-A-Am I going to die, too?" you quaver.

Mom's eyes widen. "No, of course not!" She puts a hand on your shoulder. "You have nothing to worry about. Vlad didn't last twenty-four hours, but you've made it from Friday afternoon to Sunday evening – you were unconscious while we fixed you up on Saturday – so you've already lasted _way_ longer than he did!"

You can barely hear her reassurance above the ringing in your ears and the churning of your stomach at the thought that you could be next.


	3. Chapter 3: Visiting Hours

mach at the thought that you could be next.

 **Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews!**

 **TheBlade17: I see from the language you've used in your two reviews that you've gone from liking to loving the story. YAY! As for your question, it's not currently my intention to give Danny powers; I started writing this to explore what would happen if he was weakened rather than strengthened by the Accident. Still, anything can happen…**

 **Invader Johnny: Be careful with those predictions – we don't want to give everything away, do we? But yes, Vlad probably will appear later on.**

 **AGrimmEatingTaccosAndWaffles: Um, "help" is probably not the right word … but that depends on who you ask. You'll just have to wait and see what happens. I'm glad you're enjoying it so far!**

 **MsFrizzle: Thank you for the detailed review! If you laughed at the medicines, then my mission was successful. :) The question of why Danny isn't in hospital will be looked at in more depth in Chapter Four. Basically, his parents are aware that Amity Park doesn't take them seriously (Maddie more so than Jack), but they'd rather be seen as laughing stocks than as bad parents, and that's why they're wary of letting other people find out what happened to Danny. That, and they know more about ghost diseases.**

 **Here's the next chapter – please read and review!**

 **Chapter Three: Visiting Hours**

 _The grass is high and swishing in the breeze. Wildflowers in scarlet and ochre and ultramarine shades dance between the blades. Not a cloud besmirches the azure sky. Behind the fence, your parents and sister sit on a gingham picnic blanket. They wave to you. You wave back and carry on strolling through the field._

 _Two tiny red lights flicker in the grass._

 _You blink. They disappear. But within two seconds, they've reappeared slightly closer to you. "Hello?" You crouch down and reach out to touch them. The mysterious glows duck away again._

" _Huh." You stand up straight. The breeze is much cooler now. Stronger, too: your t-shirt whips around you. The sun is obscured by thick black storm clouds._

 _Hundreds of pairs of red eyes light up, like a deadly constellation._

 _Without hesitation, you turn and run._

 _They pounce on you before you reach the gate. They coil their tentacles around your limbs. They drool onto your clothes. You're drenched in their gloopy green excretions._

" _Get off me!" But every time you free your arm from one creature's grip, another grabs it. High-pitched chatter fills the air._

" _He's good."_

" _He's tasty."_

" _He's soft."_

" _His scent…"_

" _It's irresistible!"_

" _I want him."_

" _Me, too."_

" _Let's take him."_

" _Bring him back!"_

" _Vlad could use a friend."_

 _Your blood runs cold at the mention of Vlad. "Help!" you shout. "Mom! Dad! Jazz!"_

 _The earth rumbles. A hole opens up behind you. The creatures – ghosts? – hop into it. You come with them._

" _No!" You dig your fingers into the dirt on the edge. You're clinging on for dear life. The ghosts merge into one giant blob dangling from your legs, dragging you down. They chant, "One of us! One of us! One of us!"_

 _Jazz appears above you. She takes hold of your arms and heaves you up. You're suddenly yanked back down. She shrieks into your face when she nearly topples over the edge with you._

 _Your two handfuls of soil come away from the wall._

 _Your arms, wet with goo, slide out of her grasp._

 _Now Jazz holds only the air._

 _Your screams echo in the pit. You're plummeting to your doom. You're getting further and further away from the light. It's the size of a basketball. A baseball. A marble. A pinprick._

 _Any second now, you'll hit the ground –_

You do so with a jerk so forceful you're briefly airborne again.

The bottom of the pit is surprisingly springy. Like a mattress. Or – or maybe it _is_ a mattress and you've just had a bad dream.

The blankets have twined around your naked legs. You can't free yourself. Your forehead is slick with sweat. It trickles into your facial wounds and makes them sting.

The door creaks open. "Danny? Are you okay? I heard moaning and thrashing."

"Jazz." Your brain can't come up with anything else to say. There are too many sizzling jabs at the ends of your arms for you to think straight.

She retrieves the quilt, shakes it out and covers you up properly. "Did you have a nightmare? Tell me what happened."

"Nothing happened," you blurt out. "Just weird stuff about ghosts at a picnic. Go back to bed."

"I'm not going back to bed until I know you're all right."

"I am all right."

She switches on the lamp by your bed. You hiss and turn your face away. She lifts the covers once more. "Danny, I think some of your spots have burst. I can see a few red dots on the sheet around your arms. You definitely don't look all right to me."

She rolls a sleeve up, holds your elbow and gives it a small squeeze. You whimper. "As I suspected." She wipes the blood away with a tissue. "Now, are you going to tell me what your dream was about?"

You swallow the ball of phlegm in your throat. "I was in a field – we were having a picnic. But then these ghosts came for me. They threw me down a hole." You pause. "I know, it sounds stupid now, but while it was happening, it was scary."

"What were the ghosts like?"

You turn to stare at Jazz. "What were – does it matter?"

"Not really," she shrugs. "I'm just getting you to talk. The more you talk about a nightmare, the smaller the chances of you having it again."

"If you say so," you murmur. "They were green and blobby," you tell her. "And they had red eyes. And they had long arms, kind of like tentacles."

"Were they ectopuses?" she guesses.

"Ectopuses?" you repeat.

"I think that's what they would have been. Green blobs with red eyes and tentacles – they fit the criteria."

"Since when did you become an ectopus expert?"

"Since I didn't understand what half those pills were and I decided to read up on ghosts so I can worry about you in a more informed context." She moves from crouching on the floor to sitting on the bed. "Anyway, they threw you down a hole?"

"They did."

"Maybe that's a symbol of something. A desire. Or a fear. What do you want, Danny? What are you afraid of?"

How are you supposed to answer those questions? What do you want? Your hands. Your old face. An end to the pain. The ability to get up and walk and eat and go to the bathroom like everyone else.

You close those black eyes so Jazz can't see the spiralling turmoil in their inky depths. What are you afraid of? Being stuck like this forever. Letting your family down and seeing disappointment in their eyes when they look at you. Being left behind while everybody gets sick of you and abandons you. Dying…

Dying. That's it. You're afraid of dying.

Jazz screws up the tissue in her fist as she waits. "Forget it. I shouldn't have asked."

You look at her again. "I don't want to die," you squeak.

"I don't want you to die, either. And you're not going to. Not until you're old and grey and you've had a long and happy life."

Are those garbled words meant to be convincing you, or herself? Whichever one it is, it's not working.

"Jazz, Vlad was hit in the head and he kicked the bucket that same night. What about me? Every part of me was scorched. I've got acne all over, not just on the face. Shouldn't I be in my grave by now? It's only a matter of time before…"

You trail off. You can picture the scene: the sombre clouds, the black clothes, your mother burying her face in a handkerchief, the coffin being lowered into the ground, the darkness, the stillness, the worms nibbling at your flesh –

"Hey, hey, calm down," Jazz interrupts your short panicky breaths. "I'm pretty sure you're not going to die. Vlad's accident was in, what, the Eighties? This is 2004. Times have changed. Mom and Dad have greater knowledge to go with their super-fast reflexes." Your breathing slows to a more manageable pace. She continues, "If you could see how hard they were working on Saturday, you wouldn't be scared at all. They barely ate, they never slept and they kept me away. They're not going to let anything happen to you. However bad you look or feel now, remember that it was once ten times worse – and it can always get ten times better."

"I hope so." You link your only two fingers together. "I'd do anything to get things back to normal."

"Let's forget about that stuff and go to sleep. It's better to forget and smile than to remember and be sad." She ducks under the covers and shuffles into the space next to you, perching on her side on the edge of the bed. She drapes her free arm over you and pulls herself closer to you.

You think about Mom and Dad. You imagine them hunched over an examination table, surrounded by steaming test tubes, tending to a mangled pile of flesh and blood and ectoplasm. You want to believe they care about you. You want to be comforted by the knowledge that they spent over twenty-four hours trying to save you and didn't stop until they'd succeeded. But… "There's one thing I still don't understand. If they saw what happened to Vlad, why would they build another portal?"

"I don't know, Danny. I honestly don't know." She shakes her head in dismay. "How can anybody be so obsessed with one thing that nothing else matters? How come they didn't dismantle the portal after it almost killed their son?" Her grasp on your shoulder tightens. "And look at us now – you've had a nightmare, and I'm here for you, but where are they? Snoring in their giant bed. And dreaming about hunting ghosts, I bet. Those guys can sleep through anything." She sighs. Her eyes close, her grip loosens and her speech slurs. "When will they give me a break? They don't have school tomorrow."

For a few minutes, there is silence. Then Jazz starts the conversation again, letting it decline into nonsense. "They've lost their shoes. I don't want cupcakes. In fifteen minutes, the pink cat will…"

You never find out what the pink cat will do in a quarter of an hour's time because Jazz's sentence ends with a snore. She's fallen asleep. It doesn't take long for you to do the same.

…

When you wake, Jazz has left you alone. You push down all thoughts of rejection. You didn't expect her to be glued to your side forever, did you? She has to go to school sometime. Wait, the accident happened on Friday, so today's Saturday … but didn't Mom say yesterday was Sunday? So is it Monday now? You can't remember, and you're struggling to care.

There's no conveniently-placed clock to tell you what the time is, but you're guessing you've had quite a long lie-in – so long, in fact, that you've missed the whole morning – judging by the position of the light peeking through the curtains and hitting the left wall.

No, you remember the day now. It _is_ Monday. Jazz would have been at school. Has she come home yet?

"How _dare_ you show your faces here?!"

You're startled from your musings by a mighty bellow. It's coming from your mother downstairs.

"You kids have some nerve, coming back after what you did!"

Pause. Someone else, possibly Jazz, is talking.

"Well, whose idea _was_ it to sneak into the lab and turn on the Fenton Portal?" Mom flings back.

Silence.

"I'm waiting!"

A third person speaks. They're much quieter, too quiet for you to hear. A very long pause follows.

"Do you know what you've done, missy? That little _accident_ , as you call it, tore him apart! My son, my baby boy, is languishing upstairs with boils all over his body and a bedpan under his butt! Are you happy now? Are you proud of yourself?"

"Hey, I said I was sorry!"

Who's the girl being so shrill? Is it Sam?

"'Sorry' doesn't cure ecto-acne! 'Sorry' doesn't reverse deformity! 'Sorry' doesn't take away _any_ of his pain!" Pause. "His life is over. I hope the pretty pictures in your scrapbook were worth it."

Another quiet voice.

"No, Tucker, don't try to defend her. You never tried to defend Danny, did you? No, you just stood on the side-lines and kept your mouth shut and watched him burn!"

Jazz's voice pipes up, but Mom cuts her off.

"I don't want to hear any more. I forbid you both to see Danny! For as long as there is breath in my body, I will never let you in! If I catch you two near this house again, we'll be having a little word with your parents – so GET OUT!"

A door slams.

Your calves are tingling. If you don't get your meds soon, it won't improve. Do Sam and Tucker go through things like this? Were they caught in the blast from the portal? They can't have been hurt as badly as you, but they couldn't have got away unscathed, could they? Do they have to take dozens of pills as well?

You wish your mom had been a little more forgiving. You wish you could talk to your best friends. Or do you? What would they say if they saw you? If they saw that the face they used to look out for had been sliced to pieces? If they saw that the fingers which used to fly over the keyboard when playing _Doomed_ had melted away? If they saw that the feet which chased them in elementary school would never touch the ground again? Would they be scared? Would they run away? Would they even recognise you?

What must Sam and Tucker be going through? Did they have nightmares about the accident? Did they notice the empty desk in class? Did they wonder why Dash wasn't bothering them as much as before, and then realise, with a pang of guilt, that it was because "Fentoenail" wasn't there?

Which is worse: to be the victim of a disaster, or to be the one who caused it?

As you ponder that unanswerable question, Jazz comes in with a long line of towels and blankets tied together. She draws the curtains, opens the window, ties one end of the rope to the headboard and throws the other end outside.

"Uh, Jazz? What are you doing?"

"Something," she answers unhelpfully.

Your bed begins to scrape across the floor, dragged towards the window. Jazz leaps in and pushes against it, holding it in place. Somebody is huffing and puffing, and they're coming closer. And then you recognise the combat boot on the foot of the girl sneaking in.

"Danny!" cries Sam, hopping to steady herself. "I've been trying to see you since – AAAH!" She clamps a hand over her mouth.

"What was that?" your mother calls.

"Nothing, Mom!" Jazz calls back. "I tripped over a rug!"

"Okay, be careful!"

The rope goes taut again. This time, when Jazz steadies the bed, Sam joins in. You hear somebody grunting, clearly needing to exert much more effort than Sam did. Tucker uses a forward roll to haul himself in and lands on his back (thankfully cushioned by a rucksack) with an "Oof!" He stands and brushes himself off. "Hello? Remember me? I could have used some help with that – AAAH!"

His scream is more high-pitched. Sam clamps her hand over his mouth.

"Jazz?" There's an edge of suspicion in Mom's next question: "What are you doing?"

"I'm having a very clumsy day!" she responds, rolling the towels and blankets around her hands.

"Do I have to come up there?"

"No, no, everything's fine!" She drops the rope on the floor and shuts the window a little more forcefully than she needs to. "Go back to the lab and don't worry about me!" she shouts, closing the bedroom door. "It's what you always do," she mutters under her breath.

The two secret visitors turn back to you. Sam's raven hair is loose and greasy, and the small portion in her signature ponytail droops pathetically. Normally her clothes are daring and expose her midriff, but today she wears a more conservative t-shirt with a single dusky pink rose on a black background. There's an L-shaped stain from a food you can't identify (probably a meat product) on Tucker's yellow shirt. His red beanie slopes over one ear, close to falling off entirely. Both kids have dark crescents under their eyes. There are no signs of ecto-acne, though.

"Is that Danny?" Tucker asks, pointing to the thing in the bed.

"No, I'm the Queen of England," you say.

Sam blinks a couple of times. "Whoa. Now that's what I call a sore throat."

You laugh. It's probably the first time you've laughed since Sunday.

Whether it was due to the force with which you expressed approval of the joke or something else malfunctioning within, you choose that moment to start coughing. Your pals take a step back when you bring your stump to your mouth and hack into it for a good ten seconds. At the end of it all, you clear your throat. "Did that fix it?" you gurgle. You immediately answer your own question: "I guess not."

"You don't have hands anymore," says Tucker.

You raise an eyebrow, look at your arm and gasp as if you've only just noticed the absence. Then you drop the act. "Thanks, Tuck, but I had already figured that out, like, yesterday."

"This _really_ isn't going well," says Sam. "Should we jump out the window and start over?" She attempts a giggle and a toothy grin.

"Relax, guys." Jazz stands at the foot of the bed. "It's the first time you've spoken to him since Friday. Of course it's going to be awkward. You can't rush these things. It'll be a while before you go back to normal."

"If we ever do," Tucker mumbles.

Sam's fingers hover over your skin, as if she thinks you're made of glass and you'll shatter if she knocks you off the bed. She turns to Jazz. "Can I … hug him?"

"Why don't you ask him? He's right there."

Sam looks at your chest, not your face, when she asks, "Danny, can I hug you?"

You think. Apart from the twinges in your legs, you feel all right. "I don't see why not."

She leans over and gingerly scoops her arms under your back. You're crushed against her in a rather intimate fashion; compared to your skin, which is white as snow and just as cold, she's like a lump of lava. She lingers there, listening to the rhythm of your heart beating not too far away from hers. She bursts into tears.

This takes you by surprise. In all the years you've known Samantha Manson, you've never seen her cry. Not when Tucker threw up in her new lunchbox and pinned the blame on Ricky Marsh. Not when Star tore the pages out of the beloved Brothers Grimm collection she'd brought in for Show and Tell. Not even when you locked yourselves in the school freezer and thought you would turn into ice cream before anyone found you. But she sure is crying now.

"I'm sorry," she sobs into your ear. "I'm so sorry."

When she ends the embrace, there's a wet patch on the pillow by your right cheek. She continues to half-stand there, bent at the waist, sooty eyeliner dribbling down her cheeks. She's resting her hands on the bed but clenching her fists, inches away from falling apart. "I can't stop thinking about it. Every time I close my eyes, I see you on the floor with your jumpsuit peeling away. The portal took out so many … so many chunks of you … and the holes…" She stops and gulps. "They were so deep we could see your _bones_!" She shudders. "A mound of flesh got in my hair." She runs her fingers through her locks, as if pieces of you might still be tangled up in them.

Tucker rests a hand on her back as she shudders and cries some more. "Saturday was the worst day of our lives," he says. "We both sat at home and didn't do anything. We didn't know whether you were going to live. When I got that call from Jazz, I cried."

You tilt your head to the side. "You did?"

"I did." He scowls. "Do you know what really gets to me? The portal didn't work. We thought we were bigshot explorers who were going to change the world, but it didn't work. You almost died, we messed up your face and your hands and who knows what else, and we got nothing out of it."

Sam has quietened down now. "There's a word for people who hurt others for no personal gain," she says, coldly wiping the make-up off her cheeks. "That word is 'evil.'"

"You're not evil," you insist. "If we'd known what would happen, we wouldn't have done it."

"But now that we know, we can't undo it," Sam laments. "And it hurts. It hurts like nothing I've ever felt before." She draws herself into a standing position once more, fingering the hem of her skirt. "I'm sorry for forcing you into the portal."

"And I'm sorry for not putting up more of a fight against her," says Tucker.

Sam finally makes eye contact with you and finishes, "Can you ever forgive us?"

You're silent. Forgiveness has never crossed your mind before. You've been too busy coping with unyielding discomfort and coming to terms with not being able to do the things you used to enjoy. You appeal to Jazz with big black eyes. Her gaze is fixed on the floor; for once, she's refusing to interfere.

When you reflect on the explosion, you remember agony. You remember it being preceded by passionate arguments on Sam's side, apprehension turning to enthusiasm on Tucker's side, disgruntlement turning to curiosity on your side. You probably wouldn't have pressed that button if your friends hadn't encouraged you. So they caused all this. But you can't pinpoint a particular wrongdoer. There's a difference between finding the cause and affixing blame.

Given the severity of your plight, you'd be justified in never wanting to see them again – but as much as you have every right to cut them out of your life, you can't bring yourself to despise them. Your heart won't allow it. There's a wall blocking the path and forcing hatred to turn back.

"Don't keep beating yourselves up," you tell them. "I was just as excited as you were about getting the portal to work. If anything, you should blame me for what happened." Tucker opens his mouth here, but you carry on. "I don't think it was all your fault, so I don't think I need to forgive you. Besides, hurting you isn't going to cure me, is it?"

Sam and Tucker smile in unison. "Thank you," she says, "that means a lot."

"We could never stop being friends," you add. "We know each other too well."

There's a pregnant pause, and then Tucker takes off his rucksack. "We have something else to show you." He reaches into the bag and produces a giant card. Jazz whistles, clearly impressed with the size.

"I bought this yesterday and we got everyone in our class to sign it," says Tucker.

"They know?" you ask.

"I'm afraid so," Sam admits. "Your dad called Principal Ishiyama and explained everything to her. And in high school, news spreads like a zombie virus."

Tucker props up the card in front of you. It's shocking pink and covered in glitter, save for the white heart at the centre. Within the heart is a picture of a well-loved teddy bear, with his arm in a sling, sitting up in a hospital bed. A perky doll with a blonde ponytail and a navy nurse's uniform waits on him. The words "Get Well Soon!" are written in cursive below the picture.

You struggle to get a hold of the card, so Tucker opens it for you. Platitudes from every classmate have been scribbled onto both pages. Jazz sits by your side so she can read along with you. The first message to catch your eye was written with a sparkly pink gel pen, in contrast to the surrounding blue and black inks.

 _I can't imagine how awful you must feel! Get well soon! I hope you can still make the dance – maybe you'd like to be my date? Paulina xxx_

"Well, that's great," you sigh. "Paulina asks me out and I can't even enjoy it."

Tucker shrugs. "Who knows? Maybe by then you'll have made a full recovery."

"Ha! Good one," you splutter.

"One day at a time, Tucker," says Jazz.

You read on.

 _Hang in there, Danny. DON'T GO INTO THE LIGHT! Kwan_

You and Jazz both chuckle at that one.

 _According to my calculations, you have a 99.99999997% chance of making a full recovery. Remember that. Mikey_

You smile at that one, too.

 _Get well soon, Dennis! Star xxx_

"Dennis? Star called me Dennis!"

"You know what makes it worse?" Sam asks. "It says, 'Dear Danny' at the top of the card. The girl doesn't look. Or think. Or do anything, really."

You skim over the other messages.

 _Get well soon. I can help you catch up on homework when you get back. Nathan_

"Nathan? Who's Nathan?"

"Glasses?" Tucker suggests. "Curly red hair? Valerie's stalker?"

"Oh, yeah."

Who else wrote in this card?

 _Dude, that's rough. Sorry for pounding you the other day. Hope you're holding up. Dash_

"Huh. I guess Dash does have a heart after all," you comment.

 _You know how my daddy works for Axion Labs? They're developing these high-tech prosthetic limbs. Call me if you want to know more. Stay strong. Valerie x_

She'd printed her phone number below this.

"Valerie…" You can't say much more.

"Yeah," says Tucker. "She means well. But it is a little soon to think about that stuff."

"And aren't those Axion gadgets incredibly expensive?" Jazz adds.

The rest of the students have put the standard, "Get Well Soon," followed by a few kisses. The longest passage was written by your teacher.

 _As you can tell from these (albeit slightly insensitive) messages, we're all thinking of you and wishing you a speedy recovery. There's absolutely no pressure to keep up with homework. I know I don't say it enough, but relaxation is extremely important. Get some rest and get well soon. Mr Lancer_

"These guys are so sweet," Jazz coos. "We have to put this in a place where Danny can always see it." She scans the room before deciding to balance the card on your desk, which is pressed against the left wall. "How about here?" she asks you.

"Perfect."

Jazz stands with her hands on her hips, admiring the way the rosy glitter catches the light and shines on the floor. "That was a great idea, Tucker." She pats his back.

Is Tucker … blushing?

"So, what's new at school?" you quickly ask Sam.

"Not a lot, really. I _was_ going to lobby the cafeteria to try a fully ultra-recyclo-vegetarian menu."

"Excuse me?" Tucker is wide-eyed and appalled. "You can't just get rid of meat! A high-protein diet gives us kids the energy to object to stupid ideas like that!"

"Chill out, Tuck." Sam shows her palms in a gesture of defeat. "I'm not going through with it. When I tell people what to do, it ends in disaster." She briefly bites her lip. "So everything's staying the same."

"As it should! The menu hasn't changed for fifty years!"

There's a moment of confusion as the teenagers search for the new speaker.

Then all four of you scream.

A lady with mouldy green skin is phasing through your bed.


	4. Chapter 4: Intruders from Another Realm

**Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews!**

 **TheBlade17: Thank you! Enjoy the Lunch Lady!**

 **Invader Johnny: Yeah, Sam's bossiness sometimes bothered me, too, especially in the third series. It's one of the reasons I don't really ship Amethyst Ocean and prefer seeing Danny dating someone else. I had a feeling that if Danny suffered more as a result of the Accident, Sam would have to rethink the kind of person she is and realise that her actions have consequences.**

 **Nerdy Wench: That is correct. I hope you like them – let me know what you think!**

 **Guest: I'm glad you enjoyed that chapter! You'll find out more about Vlad soon enough. And even though I'm writing this story and I'm the one who decided to keep Danny at home, I think he should be in hospital, too. But from what I've seen of Jack and Maddie's style of parenting, I imagine they'd be so concerned about Danny that they don't trust anyone else to take care of him, not even qualified doctors.**

 **I don't know how this turned into such an action-packed chapter, but … it did. To be honest, I don't like it as much as the others, but it does set up a few things that may be important later. Normal service should resume in subsequent chapters, but for now, please read and review!**

 **Chapter Four: Intruders from Another Realm**

Your legs ache even more now. This woman, whoever she is, seems to be charging the air around them, setting off sparks, irritating your already-frazzled nerves. As she rises higher and higher, revealing her tatty pink dress and stained apron and hairy legs, a string of icy, light blue mist forces itself up your windpipe and out your mouth. Its frigidity tingles down your spine.

"Who-Who-Who … Who are you?" Sam manages to say.

"I am the Lunch Lady, guardian of the edible and grisly!" You're sure the room turns purple when she throws her hands out. The effect is short-lived, however. "Would anybody like cake?"

Nobody answers her question.

"SPEAK WHEN YOU'RE SPOKEN TO!" Her grey hair is set alight. Her eyes are shaded by a red filter.

"Sorry, sorry," Jazz stammers. "You kind of startled us. We weren't expecting any ghosts – I mean, visitors. So, uh, what brings you here? Where did you come from?" Her eye twitches when she smiles.

"Why, the Ghost Zone, of course! It's where all the ghosts live."

"How did you get out?" is Tucker's follow-up question.

"Through that nice little hole that opened up not long ago." She points downwards.

"The portal's working?" you gasp. You and your friends believed the accident had been the pointless and devastating act of a trio of stupid kids – and now it turns out your sacrifice has kicked open a hole between dimensions?

The Lunch Lady ignores you. "We've been stuck with only each other for company for years," she moans, "but now, finally, we have a stable portal to the Human Realm. We're free!" She cackles with glee. Okay, the room is _definitely_ turning purple.

"Who's 'we?'" asks Sam.

She soon gets her answer. One by one, more and more apparitions appear before you.

There's a bulky silver cyborg with green hair, a goatee and a massive cannon strapped to his back. "I'm Skulker," he announces, "the Ghost Zone's greatest hunter!"

There's a green-skinned genie with super-long, jet-black hair, wearing some sky blue (and rather revealing) Arabian garb. "I am Désirée!" she croons. "What is your wish?"

There's an ivory-skinned banshee wielding a pink guitar, restraining her flaming electric blue hair in a high ponytail. "I'm Ember McLain!" she cries. "Tell me who you love!"

There's a spook in sunglasses and a trench coat, with frizzy white hair like a mad scientist, putting on gloves in the same shade of pea-green as his skin. "Behold! I am Technus," he announces, "master of all things electronic and beeping!"

There's a scrawny, bespectacled, black-and-white dork. "I'm Sidney Poindexter," he declares, "and where there is a nerd in need, I shall be there!"

There's a couple roaring in on a motorcycle. The man has dirty blonde hair and wears a lot of leather; the woman has shaggy green dreadlocks and wears a bright red jacket that accentuates her pale blue-green skin tone. "The name's Johnny," the man says. "Johnny 13. And this is my girlfriend, Kitty."

"Hey!" the woman shrieks into his ear. "I can introduce myself, you know!"

There's a green-haired bucktoothed kid dressed as a pirate, complete with a wooden left leg, a hook instead of a left hand, and an oversized hat with a skull and crossbones symbol. "Avast thar!" he calls. "'Tis I, Cap'n Youngblood!"

There's another green-skinned lady in a floaty blue dress, wearing an emerald amulet resembling a dragon's eye around her neck, fingering her long blonde plait. "I am Princess Dorothea," she purrs, "Dora for short, and I just wanted to go to the ball!"

There's a blue-skinned man in dusty overalls carrying a precarious pile of brown packages. "BEWARE!" he bellows, throwing the parcels into the air; they float instead of falling. "I am the BOX GHOST! Tremble before the might of my containers CARDBOARD AND SQUARE!"

Throughout this Who's Who of Boo, you've been ejecting plumes of biting-cold smoke. You've been transformed into a dragon against your will. Your throat is dry. You're constantly shivering. You're almost blinded by powder blue. Once you're sure there will be no more visitors, you wheeze, "What do you want?"

"Power!"

"Glory!"

"Freedom!"

"To go to the ball!"

"Justice!"

"BOXES!"

It's a cacophony. All the spirits are shouting over each other. You look out for Sam and Tucker and Jazz. They're all craning their necks to view the new arrivals, aping your wide-eyed open-mouthed expression. They're just as clueless about what to do next as you are.

"What are we waiting for? To the outside world!" says the Lunch Lady, pointing and showing the way.

Every single ghost flies towards the wall your bed is pushed up against. Every single ghost slams into it. Every single ghost is dazed, with tiny lights spinning around their heads.

Jazz approaches the window. "Someone's activated the Ghost Shield," she notes. "I can see the shiny green film." She turns back to the guests and folds her arms. "Looks like nobody's getting out. You might as well go home."

There's a collective groan.

"No fair!"

"We didn't come all this way to turn back now."

"I AM THE BOX GHOST! And I will not tolerate this!"

Somebody lightly tap-tap-taps on your door. The whole room falls silent.

"Danny," Mom hisses through the wood. "Don't panic, but we think there's a ghost in your room."

Youngblood sniggers. Your mother has grossly underestimated the number of ghosts in the room.

"Remain calm and stay perfectly still. Not that you can do much else," she admits.

"M-M-Mom?" you stammer. "It's not that simple."

"You'll be okay," she whispers. "Your father will be here soon with back-up."

Talk of the Devil – "GET AWAY FROM MY SON, YOU PUTRID POLTERGEISTS!"

The door is blown off its hinges by Dad's kick. While the human beings cough and wave the smoke away, the revenants vanish. Your father is posing with the bulky Fenton Foamer on his shoulder, but there's nothing to aim at.

Mom peers around her husband. "Sam? Tucker?" She storms in. The hood of her jumpsuit is up, and she glares at the kids through red goggles. She means business. "What are you two doing here? I thought I told you to stay away from this house."

"We know, and we're sorry," says Sam, "but – uh – we saw a ghost coming in and we had to warn Danny."

"And where is this ghost?" Mom scans the bedroom.

Dad's Fenton Finder, a small, grey, handheld device, is beeping frantically. A red lightbulb flashes behind a miniature satellite dish. "Multiple ghosts are near," a robotic female voice blasts. "Multiple ghosts are near. How can you not see the swarm of ghosts all around you?"

Colours return out of thin air. Like the lifting of a cloak, the creatures make themselves detectable to the naked eye once more.

Mom's shock is only temporary; she clenches her fists and charges up her whirring Fenton Wrist Rays. Dad seems less confident. His Fenton Foamer swings from side to side, unsure of which ghoul he should attack first.

"You two again!" Dora growls. "Did we not instruct you to leave us alone?"

"Huh?" Jazz looks at Mom and Dad, then Dora, then Mom and Dad again. "When was this?"

Johnny rolls his eyes. "Your Pops shot through the portal in this rocket ship and started messing with things he shouldn't have messed with."

Kitty joins in. "Snapping pictures, picking flowers, that kind of thing."

"At least we're working for science," Mom insists. "You're just working for chaos. Go back where you came from and nobody gets hurt."

"I don't think so." Skulker ducks down, grips Jazz's skull with one hand and holds a glowing blade to her neck with the other. "You'll lift the shield and let us go if you know what's good for you," he tells your parents.

Now all eyes (most of them in unnatural shades of green and red) are on your paling sister. You can see the beads of sweat on both your parents' faces. You can see Sam and Tucker taking half a step back.

No-one's bothered about you.

Wait a second. No-one's bothered about you. That means…

You hoist yourself up, biting your tongue to stop yourself crying out, and scoop up your weapon of choice. Even as you're struggling to get a grip with only a thumb and a little finger, nobody glances in your direction. Who cares about the invalid?

So you throw the pillow at the android's head.

Skulker's helmet comes off. A tiny green blob with red eyes, which had been hiding underneath, emits a high-pitched shriek.

Dad takes advantage of the confusion to propel a glob of foam at Skulker's "chest." The armour clatters to the ground and a massive hole begins to corrode. Jazz has been released.

But so has the frenzy.

Every visitor shrieks at once. Some ghosts fly one way. Other fly the other way. They pass through all the walls and floors and ceilings in the house. Mom and Dad stay where they are, firing at any ghost they think they can catch. Green globs and blue bolts shoot across the room. Books are knocked off the shelves by careless spectral tails. Walls are splattered with bubbles. Cardboard boxes are blown to smithereens. The air is thick with bangs and battle cries and the roars of Johnny's motorcycle. Monsters throw their kaleidoscopic ghost rays hither and yon. Dust clouds rise as civil wars break out between spirits whenever somebody gets in somebody else's way. The whole thing is like a scene from a cartoon.

Tucker dives under the bed. Jazz takes you in her arms and cowers. Sam shields herself with a chair and bats away Ember's guitar when it swings dangerously close to her head. All you can do is lie here, letting the eerie fumes fly out your mouth and hoping it will be over soon.

The fight reaches a turning point. Every exhausted ethereal being has gathered in your bedroom once more, wearing heavy scowls, bearing their fangs, gearing up for a team charge. Mom pulls the Fenton Thermos out of her back pocket and mutters, "Please work." She presses a button, the device emits a few crackles and pops – and then she's swamped in a cobalt aura. She points it at the crowd, draws somebody out and catches them in a net. The Lunch Lady spirals into the Thermos, shouting and grappling to get out of the swirling energy stream, to no avail.

Mom slams the lid on. "Does anybody want to join her, or are you going to go quietly?"

The spectres just stare.

"Let's skedaddle," Poindexter suggests. "These guys are tougher than we thought."

All the others come to their senses and plunge through the floor after him.

After the chaos subsides, silence reigns. Tucker's head slowly comes into view. "H-H-Have the g-g-ghosts g-g-g-g-gone now?" he asks, still trembling.

Dad hops over and points the Fenton Finder in all your faces. "No ghosts detected," it drones.

"Why do I get the feeling I'll be talking about this to a psychiatrist someday?" Sam wonders aloud. She steps over a puddle of ectoplasmic residue and pushes the chair back under the desk to avoid your parents' frowns. "Thanks for getting rid of those guys," she mumbles sheepishly, twisting her boot on the floor.

"You're welcome," Mom smiles. "Now GET OUT!" she shouts.

They run off, thunder down the stairs (with Sam calling, "Get well soon, Danny!" behind her) and slam the front door.

Dad wipes the moisture off his forehead. "That was … quite something," he pants. He spies the Thermos in Mom's hands and grins. "Wanna see what we can wring out of this old lady?"

"Absolutely!"

They skip away with nothing but science in their heads.

Your arms are outstretched, awaiting a hug that will never come. You'd been expecting a touching moment of everyone coming together and giving thanks that the family was still whole. That expectation has not been fulfilled.

Jazz notices you loitering, so she embraces you, patting your flaky scalp. "Aren't you glad that's over?" she laughs. She retrieves your pillow, brushes it off and returns it to its proper place under your head. "Are you okay?"

"I think so." You sink into soft squishiness. "I actually didn't mind having something to distract me from … well, everything. Speaking of which…" You close your eyes and whine. It's all flooding back. Your right cheek, the sooty-looking one, is prickling, insisting that you pay attention to it. You bend your knee and go, "Aah!" when your joints click.

"Ouch." Why is Jazz saying that? She's not the one in pain. "Hang in there, Danny. I'll get your pills and stuff." She examines the doorframe. "And hopefully Dad will find the toolbox and fix your door," she continues as she leaves.

…

Mom, Dad and Jazz have eaten dinner. You have drunk another slimy cocktail of ecto-purifier and pills. Jazz has washed your intimate regions, as she now has to do every evening, much to your disgust.

The Fenton family is assembling in your room. Your books and posters have been returned to their proper places. Most of the spray from the Fenton Foamer could be scrubbed off, but a couple of wet patches with faint olive outlines remain on the walls. The door is back on its hinges, thanks to the teamwork of Dad and Jazz – if Dad doing all the heavy lifting while Jazz criticises every move he makes counts as "teamwork". Mom has carried up a few chairs from the kitchen so everyone (except you, obviously) can sit down in a semicircle around the bed. She has also erected a stand which holds a whiteboard; "FAMILY MEETING" has been written on it with a red marker pen.

"First things first," Jazz begins, tapping her pencil against a small notebook, "how did the ghosts get out in the first place? They came through the portal, but wasn't it supposed to be broken?"

"I think I know what happened." Mom rubs the back of her neck. "Those unusual readings we were investigating yesterday … they were unusual because the portal was turning itself on. It was working even though we didn't expect it to."

"How did you know it worked?" your sister flings back.

"We confirmed that theory by going through it earlier today."

"Wait, wait, wait." Jazz holds up her hands. "You've been to the _Ghost Zone_?"

Mom laughs nervously. "Well, the opportunity was too good to pass up, so we went on a little trip-"

"Inside the Spectre Speeder!" Dad interrupts. "It's got all the latest in state-of-the-art spirit plane exploration technology. And a super-sized cup-holder."

"Indeed," says Mom. "Oh, that realm is incredible. It's like nothing we've ever seen before."

Jazz isn't interested. "What if you got lost and couldn't find your way back out?" she quizzes them. "What if you angered the ghosts so much that they wouldn't let you go? Did none of this occur to you?"

Mom shrugs. "It started to occur to us once a big pale man – Walker, he said his name was – told us to leave before he imprisoned us. But we didn't really have any qualms with going in. You were at school, and Danny was sleeping peacefully. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Jazz scribbles something down. "And why didn't you tell us what the unusual readings were about?"

"It didn't seem necessary. You wouldn't have approved," Dad explains, "and Danny wouldn't have been able to join in."

"Why not?" you pipe up.

Mom does a double take. "Sorry, darling. We're talking about you as if you're not here, aren't we?"

"You could've rolled me onto a stretcher or something," you argue. They could've thought before dismissing you entirely. The portal wouldn't be active in the first place if it wasn't for you.

You lift your head, clench your teeth and try to hoist yourself into a sitting position. You can't achieve anything close to a ninety-degree angle because your patchwork chest is sore and you're squishing the spots low down on your back. You start grizzling.

"Easy there, Danny boy." Dad rises from his seat, watching you lower yourself again. "You shouldn't run before you can walk. Or, I suppose, sit up before you can lie down."

"You didn't seem to struggle so much before – I guess the blood blossoms haven't kicked in yet…" Mom doesn't muse any further. She changes the subject. "What were we talking about before that happened?"

"Turning the portal on and letting the ghosts out," Jazz recaps, skimming over her notes. "That's probably a good rule to follow in future: make sure the portal is closed after use."

"And we'll need to keep the alarm system on at all times in case _somebody_ forgets about that rule," says Mom, looking pointedly at Dad.

"You have absolutely no evidence that I left it open," he insists.

"Except for the plate of fudge I found by the control panel!"

" _Focus_ ," Jazz cuts them off, tearing a page out of her book. "Okay, let's say the portal stays on and there's a ghost in the house and the alarm sounds. What do we do?"

"Simple," Dad replies. "The kids evacuate and the adults take care of the spook."

"And how will Danny get out?" she reminds him.

Everyone's looking you up and down. You avoid meeting their gazes while your cheeks grow warmer. You can't decide whether the attention and concern is preferable to them talking as if you weren't there.

"I could carry him," Dad offers. "Your mother's the better shot, anyway. She'd happily take on a whole army of ghosts by herself."

"But if the path from here to the front door is blocked," Mom ponders, "we'll need a back-up plan to keep him safe." She unbuckles her belt, a thick silver band with a round green clasp, and uncovers you to the waist. She wraps the Spectre Deflector around you, just below your ribcage, and locks it with a tiny key. Your lips curl at the slightly frosty sensation of the metal through your pyjama shirt.

"I know it's girly," she says as she tucks you back in, "but it's for your own protection. Now if any wraith lays a finger on you, they'll get a nasty shock."

"How are you feeling, by the way?" Jazz asks. "Is your chest better?"

"Yeah, it's fine now. But, uh…" You raise your head and focus on your parents. "I wanted to ask you guys something. When all the ghosts were dropping in, this weird misty stuff came out my mouth. Is that normal?"

Is it a sign that you're deteriorating? That's the question you want to ask. But it's also the question you don't want to ask.

"Hmmm…" Dad rubs his chin in thought. "Let me try something."

He stands at the end of the bed pinching a matchbox-sized wallet of avocado-green dust. He initially leans on the metal bars, but he backs up when they start creaking under his weight.

"Did that come from the Lunch Lady?" you croak. What did they do to her to obtain those samples?

"It's just a couple of leg hairs and a few flecks of skin in a sealed packet. It won't kill you."

He shakes the wallet. Nothing happens. He moves along the bed, sidestepping like a crab. Still nothing happens – until, about halfway down, your jaw drops open to release the trail of smoke that built up behind it.

"Fascinating." He pockets the packet. "It must be some kind of ghost sense. I've heard about those remarkable people who just _know_ when an ectoplasmic creature is near. And now my son is one of them." You start nibbling your bottom lip. "Don't look so nervous, kid. A ghost sense isn't another illness, it's an ability. A pretty cool ability, might I add."

"We ought to get you a panic button or something," Mom opines. "Then if there's a filthy phantom about and you're the first to know, you can-" She halts mid-sentence. "What is _that_?"

How have your parents only just noticed the massive shiny Get Well Soon card? The pink glitter sticks out against the blue walls like a sore thumb. The froth from the Fenton Foamer consumed one of its corners in the earlier scuffle. Star's message to "Dennis" will have been almost completely eradicated.

Dad retrieves it and reads a couple of lines, and then his eyebrows rise. "The students know? Principal Ishiyama told me it would be treated with confidentiality."

Mom tuts. "It's because of Sam and Tucker, isn't it?"

Jazz runs her fingers through her hair. "Tucker bought the card. I don't know if Sam suggested it or anything."

"Perfect," Mom sighs with her head in her hands. "This is perfect."

"What's with that attitude?" Jazz presses her. "I thought it was sweet."

"Don't you see?" says Mom. "We're already mocked for believing in ghosts, and now the students will be blabbing about Danny to their parents, and we'll look like we can't keep our own son safe." Her voice becomes more and more shrill. "And the next thing you know, the Guys in White will poke their noses in and tell the government to take away our kids and we'll never see them again!"

"Honey, you might be overreacting just a little bit." Dad puts a hand on his wife's shoulder. "They wouldn't make off with Danny when he's in this state. They wouldn't make off with him, period. We're treating you well, aren't we, Danny?"

You turn your head to the side and close your eyes.

"Danny?"

Your breathing slows.

"Looks like somebody's had a tiring day," Mom whispers.

You listen to the floorboards creaking as they tiptoe out.

You're getting a cramp in your abdomen. Some of it is fear, tight and constricting, at the thought of being thrown in the back of a van by government busybodies while your parents stand on the doorstep and watch. But some of it is guilt, like a snake wriggling through your intestines – guilt arising from knowing how relieved you would have felt if you were taken as far away from the Fenton Ghost Portal as possible.


End file.
